


Do You Remember How We Went?

by devil_t_rex



Category: Goyo: Ang Batang Heneral (2018), Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: 180 on the angst, @durch here is a domestic moment ;;, M/M, Mabinaldo - Freeform, because i don't know how to write angst, but i go to a catholic all girls high school so, historically questionable, kind of, opening line from Judith Wright because school assignment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 04:03:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15721590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devil_t_rex/pseuds/devil_t_rex
Summary: thank u for giving me permission ate durch for the domestic mabinaldoMiong does something sweet for Pole at his bahay kubo :) set ambiguously, but after Pole moves out





	Do You Remember How We Went?

_“Do you remember how we went-”_ Miong’s voice was thick with the tears that pooled at his throat as he tries to meet the attorney’s eyes. Polé raises his head, effectively silencing the man in front of him as he gives him _exactly_ what he wanted. He knows how Miong ached over the words he wrote on those articles, Polé admits _that_ much; he often pretended in those lonely nights in the hut that his fountain pen’s metal nib was sharpened like the sword Dr Rizal compared it to so long ago. He pretended to penetrate Miong’s heart as a knife would to an origami structure. Miong swallows the pool of saliva that decided to accumulate in his throat and he passes Polé a basket of assorted fruits and vegetables. He thought it was cute and Polé fights the urge to laugh dryly. Did he think that the revolution that they both witnessed could be silenced and mended with an arrangement of long beans, pumpkins, and custard-apples? 

 

“Please, Polé,” Miong tries again as he nudges the basket closer. “Forgive me, for whatever I may have done wrong. As President of the Philippines, I ask you, my Prime Minister—”

Polé cuts through Miong’s tirade. “Is that all, Señor Presidente? Is that all that I am? The Prime Minister of this Republic? Surely, is my power not sufficient to warrant greater action on your part against the clear, roiling propagation of American colonisation?” 

Miong holds a hand up. “I’m not here to argue with you, Polé.” 

Polé takes a deep breath and raises a singular eyebrow as he stares the fruit down. “Then why have you come at this hour, in this hut?” 

Miong flashes a sweet smile. “To make sure you get some breakfast. It’s far too late to go down to the panaderia, so I thought,” he picks up a bundle of string beans, “to make you bulanglang.” 

“You have my permission,” came the cold reply. 

Polé remains silent as Miong picks up a handful of okra and prepares the boiling pot. Polé relaxes his shoulders and continues to write another article. He tries to keep a dour face. 

 

Polé seems to loosen at one sip from the bulanglang. “You’re making me miss Kawit,” he says sadly. 

“That can be amended,” Miong smirks. Polé’s eyes bulge in humour and surprise. 

“No. You already call me enough times a day to last a lifetime.”

“Perhaps I should stop,” Miong snappily replies, voice briefly contemplative. 

“Remove the phone,” Polé replies sarcastically. 

“-And then, will you have the presidency? You’re intelligent, dedicated-” 

 

Apolinario stops at this and he tries to find a link between these words and the circular, orbital movement they’ve been making, and he shakes himself. 

_The presidency?_

His face flicks back and forth from the table to Miong’s stupid box haircut and he wonders if there sits a ghost who possessed him to cook bulanglang and contemplate giving the presidency- the position that most illustrados would hanker for- to _him_. This started to look like the dynamic that Polé had always wanted, always craved...

No. The presidency belonged to Aguinaldo. 

And he hoped that he did too. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be my English homework for creative writing but I got, carried away, as you do,


End file.
